


Losing Sight

by cyranothe2nd



Series: Losing Sight [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Breathplay, Knives, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranothe2nd/pseuds/cyranothe2nd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their bodies know the truth of things even when their brains do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Knight versus Anarchy challenge, round 20 for prompt "in black and white." Betaed by 1RubberChicken.
> 
> The summary line was taken wholesale from 'Almost Always' by Ivy Blossom.

 

   The first time it happens, Joker is not sure who starts it. Probably Joker. One minute Bats is whaling on him while Joker laughs in his face. The next, he’s on his knees and Bats’ cock is down his throat and it is _glorious_.  
   Joker isn’t really surprised by this turn of events. They are two equal forces dedicated to unrelenting battle. _Of course_ they are going to fuck each other.  
      That’s all it is—fucking. It’s instinct, their reptile brains taking over. Greedy fingers claw at skin, teeth tearing, tongues dueling as adrenaline-soaked blood howls through their veins--all the desires of their reptile brains spill out.  
   Their bodies know the truth of things even when their brains do not.  
   Joker has always trusted his reptile brain much more than his monkey brain. His gut knew what Bats was to him long before Joker ever did. His equal. His opposite. His whole world.  
   He thought that Bats knew it too, once upon a time. Knew how to counter Joker’s pranks with his icy rage, knew how to play their rooftop games and then go home and lick his wounds and come back to do it again. They battled across the city, tearing down walls and alternately tearing each other apart and fucking each other’s brains out and it was _lovely._  
   He thought that they were destined to do this forever.  
   He was wrong.

 

   Joker leans back and surveys his handiwork.  
   The video is all over the media by now. His Bats has been called out to play. The video contains a clue as to where the _action_ will be but Joker’s made it hard, made it so Bats will have to work for it. The crying kids on the tower—twenty eight-year old orphans; it took Joker _forever_ to find them—are a particularly nice touch, considering the date. This is a special day. Twenty years to the day since little Brucie lost his parents. Joker’s message will be received and Bats will be good and angry that’s Joker’s figured out his precious _secret_. He’ll come barreling in and they’ll fight and Joker will end up with his face against the floor while Bats fucks him into the concrete.  
   Joker grins to himself at the thought. He stands and stretches his arms above his head, rotating his wrists. He flexes, arching his back until it cracks and then runs his hands through his hair, smoothing it back over his ears. He peers over the ledge that rings the rooftop to the tower across the alley, where the little fishies are all chained up and waiting. They are nearly on a level and he can clearly see the red light of the timer flashing, though he cannot make out the numbers. He checks his pocketwatch. Ten minutes until show time.  
   Batman is cutting it close.  
   Perhaps Joker has made it too hard? But no—his Bat might be pretty but he is no dummy. He’ll figure it out.  
   Five minutes go by and Joker is starting to become…not _worried_ \-- Joker doesn’t do _worried_.--but, concerned. He’s heard rumors. In the two weeks since he’s seen the Bat, there has been some talk. The first time he’d heard it—“I’m telling ya man, Batman’s gone!”—he’d put a knife through the guy’s throat. But he started paying attention as well. Listened to his contacts in the GCPD, who said that arrests had declined while petty crime was on the rise. Listened to the mobsters start making noise about being back in business. Listened to the schemers speculate.  
   Let ‘em. Bats might ignore two-bit petty criminals, but he couldn’t ignore _him_.  
   The minutes tick by.  
   Joker begins pacing across the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the tower. _Where is he?_  
   He checks his watch again. Looks back to the children, still sniveling away. _WHERE IS HE?_  
   The explosion flings chunks of concrete across the rooftop, peppering pebbles across Joker’s face.  
   Joker feels nothing.  
   Sirens shriek in the distance.  
   Joker does not move.  
   Batman didn’t come.  
   The realization burns through Joker, filling his head up: _hedidn’tcomehedidn’tcomehedidn’tcomehedidn’t--_ He beings to giggle, machine gun bursts of laughter that rolls out of him, so loud that it drowns out the noise in his head. He falls to the ground, rolling in the dust, clutching his sides. Tears are streaming down his face and his throat is burning but he cannot stop laughing because it is just _too damn funny_.  
   “Ooooh Bats,” he moans. The joke’s on him.  
   _The Joker’s been jilted,_ he thinks. _AhaHAHaha! Joker. Jilted._  
   Joker clenches his fists and beats futilely at the ground. “No. Nonononono. _No._ He can’t do this to me. HE CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!”  
   But in the coming weeks, Joker has to admit that he has; Batman is gone. No bomb threat, no killing spree, no inferno succeeds in bringing back that beautiful fury. The impossible has happened.  
   Batman has left the city to rot.  
   And nothing Joker does can change that.

 

   The first time Joker meets his Bat in his Bruce Wayne disguise, he is disgusted. There is something obscene about seeing his Bat uncovered, like Joker is seeing some secret, shameful thing. Bruce’s mouth is still set in his unrelenting grimace but his eyes are dead.  
   It is two weeks after the children on the tower when Bruce shows up at the door of the abandoned apartment Joker is currently staying in. They don’t speak. Bruce just grabs him with desperate strength and pulls him to the bed.  
   Well, Joker is nothing if not adaptable.  
   Afterwards, Joker wants to ask him why—why he’s here, why he’s stopped being the Batman and, most importantly, why he thinks he even _can_ stop--but Bruce looks so brittle. He’s dropped at least fifteen pounds since Joker saw him last and the dark rings around his eyes mean he isn’t sleeping. He sits on the edge of the bed and his shoulders hunch like he’d like to disappear into himself. He looks haunted. Joker thinks that one word from him would be enough to shatter Bruce if he let it.  
   Joker will _never_ let it.  
   For weeks this continues. He silently takes all Bats has to offer and, when next they meet, he ignores the guilty expectation in Bruce’s eyes. He never throws it in his face, never demands an explanation, never sneers at the hypocrisy.  
   He wants more, desperately.  
   It kills Joker to see Bats defeated and know that he isn’t the one to defeat him. Joker wants to make Bats cry, make him rage, make him feel _something_. He wants to stop Bats looking like that at him, with his hollow eyes and his useless guilt. He wants to shout at him that they are supposed to complete each other, that he is not supposed to stand witness as Bruce falls apart.  
   He wants Batman back.  
   Obsession is its own kind of hope. There is nothing as inspiring as a string of almost; almost touches, almost kisses, almost connections in the blinding dark. But Joker doesn’t want _almost_. He wants Bats for real, for keeps. Forever.  
   Joker knows from experience that deprivation twists something inside, creates deep festering wounds that will never heal. Deprivation is slowly poisoning them both. And he is sick to death of being denied.  
   So, he decides that enough is enough. He’ll do what it takes to force his darling back to life.  
   And if it doesn’t work—he’s got a knife for both of them.

 

   The penthouse is laughably easy to break into. He wonders if Bats really feels this impregnable, if he’s really this convinced of his own cleverness or if Joker is walking into some kind of trap. But nothing hinders him as he walks down the hallway, his soft footfalls whispering over thick carpeting. Everything is quiet. No one home. Good.  
   He counts doorways, opening one at random to reveal a guest bedroom done in tasteful greys that make his fingers itch for a match. He doesn’t know how a man like Bats can live inside this stately prison without tearing it apart. It’s one of the paradoxes that fascinate him so—how Batman can stand to pretend so much of the time. How he can stand to hide who he _is_ , even to the point of convincing himself that the illusion is the truth. How he can be so _blind_ about the most obvious things.  
   Joker abandons the bedroom for the next doorway, a library. Then another bedroom—black and green this time, Joker approves—then a spacious bathroom. Finally, he is at the end of the hall.  
   He picks the door to the left and swings it open. Another empty bedroom, not the master suite but not for guests, either. This one looks lived in. There are clothes—whites and blacks, mostly; what is it with these people and black?—hanging in neat rows in the closet. The bedspread is worn and faded, though tucked tight and perfectly wrinkle-free. There are no personal items cluttering the room, save for a series of framed photos on the dresser top. The air is stale, as if the door hasn’t been opened for weeks and the light coating of dust on the dresser is at odds with the spare precision of the room.  
   Joker moves closer to take in the pictures lined up upon the dark mahogany; some staged family photographs and candids of a dark-haired, serious-eyed boy in various stages of childhood. The large mirror above the dresser throws his own image back to him as he bends and plucks up the most recent photo. The carefree smile is so different from the supercilious smirk he—and for that matter, most of Gotham--is used to seeing on this face.  
   “What are you doing here?”  
   Joker nearly drops the picture. He clutches it to his chest instead, turning towards the man in the doorway. His face has become more devastatingly handsome but the eyes are the same, dark and shadowed.  
   “Nevermind. Get. Out,” Bruce growls and some of the old rage is edging into his words. Joker beams at him.  
   “Aw, come on. After I’ve gone to all the trouble to visit you at home? The least you can do is offer me a drink, let me take a load off—“  
   Bruce punches him in the face. The picture slips from his hand and tumbles to the floor, forgotten, as a rush of endorphins momentarily whites out his vision.  
   “AHahaHAha. Do it _again_!”  
   Bruce obliges. The second blow knocks him to the floor and Bruce follows, planting his knee on Joker’s chest and punching, over and over. Bats is spitting words at him behind clenched teeth but Joker cannot hear over the roar of his own blood in his ears. Twinkling lights fill up his vision and it’s almost like old times. It feels so _good_ that he doesn’t want it to end, but he reminds himself sternly that he is here for a reason and twists his hips, unseating Bruce.  
   He rolls to his feet, licking at the blood dripping from his broken nose.  
   “Much as I enjoy our –heh- usual foreplay, I didn’t come here for _that_.”  
   Bruce wilts. i >God **damn** it.  
   “Stop looking like that,” Joker barks, suddenly furious.  
   Bruce’s face goes blank. _Not an improvement,_ Joker thinks. He rubs a hand through his hair.  
   “Whose room is this?”  
   Bruce tenses. “I am _not_ talking about that with you.”  
   Joker leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb. “Ye _ah_ you will.”  
   Bruce narrows his eyes and makes to step around Joker but Joker’s arm bars the doorway. “Noooo,” Joker says quietly. “I am not letting you leave this room until you tell me what I want to know.”  
   “Not _letting_ me?” Bruce’s voice is incredulous.  
   Joker hits Bruce square in the jaw. His head snaps back and makes contact with the door frame. It has been a while since Bruce has fought without the armor and Joker can tell that he’s forgotten how much it _hurts._ He keeps his feet but it takes him a few seconds to clear his vision. A few seconds are all Joker needs to force him down and pin his arms behind his back. The snap of the handcuffs locking into place make Bruce goes rigid.  
   “You’ve been holding back,” Bruce says numbly. “All this time, you’ve been letting me win.”  
   He sounds like that hurts worse than being helpless and at Joker’s mercy.  
   Joker purses his lips but doesn’t deny it.  
    
“Nooooow,” he says. He hooks his hands over Bruce’s left side and rolls him over. “Let’s talk.”  
   Bruce glares back at him, defiant. Things are looking up.  
   “Five questions. Then I’ll let you out of the cuffs. That’s the deal.” He waits for Bruce’s nod. “And don’t lie,” he adds. “I’ll know.”  
   “Then what’s the point?” Bruce shoots back, sullenly.  
   “The point, _sweet_ heart, is that you admit the truth to yourself.”  
   Joker’s fingers trace patterns over Bruce’s chest, curving around his shoulders, thumbs brushing his collarbone before meeting in the hollow of his neck. “All the times you’ve fucked me. How many times have you jerked off to the memory, hmmm?”  
   “Never,” Bruce grinds out.  
   Joker’s thumbs tap a rhythm against his exposed throat. “Good.”  
   He flexes his fingers. Bruce shivers. Interesting.  
   “Does it turn you on to be like this? Powerless?”  
   The lethargy in Bruce’s eyes is clearing. His Bat is coming out to play—hooray.  
   “Yes,” Bats bites out. He arches up a little, pressing his throat more firmly into Joker’s grip.  
   Joker smiles sweetly down at him. He is tempted—sorely tempted—to take what’s on offer here.  
   Instead, he plunges in the knife.  
   “The dead guy who lived in this room. What was his name?”  
   There is a wonderful moment where Bats looks sweetly confused at the change of track. And then he stiffens.  
   “Fuck you.”  
   “Uh-uh. That’s not the _deal._ ”  
   Bruce rolls himself over and manages to get to his knees before Joker knocks him back down. He puts his knee in Bruce’s back and grabs a fistful of his hair. Bruce bucks beneath him, writhing against his hold but Joker pulls Bruce’s head back hard, arching his body into a bow.  
   “Tut tut, Bats. You haven’t answered my _ques_ tion.” A twist of his wrist produces a long knife. He holds it in front of Bats’ face and lets him get a good look. Then he moves the knife to Bruce’s exposed neck, pressing just enough to draw blood.  
   “Now,” he croons into Bruce’s ear. “Tell me.”  
   Joker waits, letting the silence stretch taut. This is the moment. Either Bats will cave and talk to him, or he’ll choose the knife. And Joker is surprised to find that he really doesn’t know which it will be.  
   He can feel Bruce trembling beneath him. His breath is coming in short gasps, chest heaving with the effort to pull in air with his back bowed to breaking and the knife pressing in. Joker listens to him breath in and out three times before his body abruptly relaxes.  
   “You can put that away,” he rasps. “I know you aren’t going to kill me.”  
   “Of course not.” He puts the knife away and shifts Bruce to a more comfortable position.  
   “His name was Alfred,” Bruce mumbles into the carpet. “He was—“ He stops. The relaxation of a moment ago leaves his body. His muscles jerk with tension. A low moan works its way past clenched teeth.  
   “Hey, hey, Bruce,” Joker soothes.  
   “Fuck,” Bruce manages, squeezing his eyes shut.  
   It takes a long time before Bruce is able to talk again.  
   “They murdered him,” he says at last. “To get to me.” His voice is gravel and night. He turns his face toward Joker. The carpet is wet beneath his cheek.  
   “And what did _you_ do?”  
   Bruce doesn’t seem surprised that Joker’s already guessed.  
   “I killed them,” he says flatly. “Three men, plus the man who hired them.”  
   Joker leans forward until they are face to face and presses a chaste kiss to Bruce’s forehead. “Good,” he says.

 

   Bruce’s eyes close. It is a testament to how far gone he is that he should feel relieved that Joker approves. He murdered four men. He is no better than Joker and he knows it. He deserves every moment of the misery he feels. Nevertheless, the kiss feels like a benediction. The hard kernel of guilt inside of him loosens and Bruce feels like he can breathe for the first time in months.  
   It won’t last. He knows that. But he is willing to give a lot for this reprieve.  
   “You have one more question,” Bruce says at last. His voice is low but there is an edge of teasing in it that sends a surge of hope through Joker.  
   Joker’s hands ghost up his sides, then back down to scratch lightly at the small of his back. His body feels buoyant and his head is swimming. Bruce lets out a small sigh. The handcuffs are pulling at his wrists like an anchor. There is safety here, where nothing is his fault. He sinks into the feeling and his world, which has been skewing out of control, begins to level out again.  
   Joker’s mouth is warm against the back of his neck. His tongue laps at Bruce’s skin and then he bites down and sucks gently. Bruce can feel the press of Joker’s body behind him and he arches back, gasping when he feels Joker’s hard cock against his jeans. His body responds, blood rushing to his dick.  
   “Yessss,” Joker hisses as though he knows, as though he can feel the moment when Bruce’s brain surrenders to his instinct. His hand snakes around to fondle Bruce’s erection through the fabric. Bruce sucks in a breath and doesn’t even fight the urge to rut against Joker’s hand. Joker huffs a laugh into the back of his neck and lifts his weight off of Bruce’s back. Joker’s clever fingers find the button on his jeans and his pants and boxers are pulled down and left in a tangle at his ankles. The fabric hobbles his legs, making him feel even more helpless, even more safe.  
   Bruce hears himself let out a low groan when Joker’s hand closer around his cock. His other arm is around Bruce’s waist and Joker slithers up, pressing their bodies together from neck to knees. He can feel Joker’s erection against his ass, his moist breath against the back of his neck as his hand begins to lazily stroke Bruce’s cock. Bruce tries to move with him but he has no room between the floor and the press of Joker’s body.  
   Joker’s hips begin to move against Bruce, following the same excruciatingly slow rhythm as his hand on Bruce, pulling them back on the upstroke and then grinding against him on the downstroke. His movement gives Bruce some breathing room and Bruce pushes up with his shoulders and gets his knees under him.  
   He hears Joker’s appreciative hiss as Bruce begins to move _with_ him and ooooooh yes. This is perfect.  
   Bruce is so lost in sensation that, when Joker suddenly pulls away, he cannot muffle his whimper at the loss of contact.  
   “Shh, shh,” Joker soothes. He runs a hand down Bruce’s bare back and then under Bruce’s hips, lifting him and urging him to curl his legs underneath him, hiking his ass into the air. The new position leaves Bruce feeling vulnerable. He hears a rustle of discarded clothing and then the pop of a cap. There is a ludicrous moment when the hilarity of this seizes him-- _Joker carrying lube around in his pocket_ \-- and then a lubed finger circles his entrance teasingly and Bruce feels the air rush from his lungs.  
   He’s never done this before. He didn’t even know Joker wanted it. He cannot help how he tenses, his body automatically rejecting what’s coming.  
   “Reeeelax,” Joker whispers against his ear. “Remember how much you trust me.”  
   “I don’t—“ Bruce begins automatically.  
   Joker ignores his words. His finger presses harder and the rest of the denial dies in Bruce’s throat as Joker’s finger rubs and prods against his entrance tantalizingly. A wave of heat bursts through Bruce’s body and he takes a long, shuddering breath and feels the ring of muscles give way. Joker’s finger slips inside.  
   Bruce cannot help the little sound that escape his mouth; he is so surprised. Joker’s finger moves slowly in and out and Bruce feels his body relaxing and opening for him. Every twist of that finger against Bruce’s sensitized skin producing sparks up his spine. It feels like a benevolent invasion, the press in causing an itching under his skin that is temporarily relieved by the show slide out, before the rhythm starts again. Bruce’s body rocks with it, wanting more. Joker obligingly adds another finger and reaches up, angling for something. Bruce jerks as Joker rubs against his prostate and feels Joker’s huff of laughter against his shoulder. Bruce is too lost in sensation to protest.  
   Instead, he arches back, wanting more. Joker gives it to him, pressing harder, increasing the pace. His fingers brush against that spot inside Bruce and the pleasure is so intense that it is almost pain. It is both too much and not enough and the dichotomy expands until there is nothing left in Bruce’s head. His whole world is centered around the push and pull of Joker’s fingers inside of him.  
   Bruce does not know how long it is before Joker stills. Bruce makes a petulant noise and cants his hips back, trying to resume the delicious rhythm but Joker licks at his earlobe and then bites down hard, diverting his attention.  
   “Last question,” he murmurs against the back of Bruce’s neck. His voice sounds absolutely wrecked, like he is the one spread out on the floor, being fingered within an inch of his life. His teeth nip sharply at Bruce’s nape. “Do you want this?”  
   _Do you want_ me?  
   The question unlocks something inside of Bruce and he suddenly knows he would do anything at all for this to continue. His arms ache from the handcuffs and he is completely helpless and he _fucking loves it._ Blood rises to his face, a combination of humiliation and lust. He hears himself answer before he can think. “Yes,” he whimpers. “ _Please._ ”  
   Joker withdraws his fingers and grips Bruce’s hips. The blunt head of his cock pushes against Bruce’s entrance and starts the slow slide inside. Bruce feels like he is dying and like he is being reborn simultaneously. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly. But Joker’s cock is bigger than his fingers and Bruce feels like he is being stretched to the breaking point. The feeling drives every other thought from his head; there is no escape from the relentless pressure of Joker’s cock sinking into his body. Bruce moans, his muscles tensing, and Joker’s fingers clench painfully on his hips, and then he leans over and takes a lush mouthful of Bruce’s skin between his jaws. His hips do not still as he bites down and the pain lulls Bruce, his body going pliant as his mind floats in a wash of endorphins.  
   Joker pauses, fully seated. He wraps his arms around Bruce’s heaving chest, rubbing soothing circles over his heart. He waits until Bruce has regained himself a little, his muscles tightening as he becomes more aware of their positions. The burn and pressure have lessened and Bruce is left with the feeling of being very full. He sucks in a breath and arches experimentally.  
   His breath huffs out as Joker’s hips snap forward and whatever control Joker had seems to disappear. Joker’s fingers are scrambling against Bruce’s sweat-soaked chest and he draws back and plunges in again, setting a quick and brutal pace. Bruce’s blood is rushing loudly in his ears and the feel of Joker thumping against his prostate is impossibly good.  
   Joker reaches for Bruce’s cock and strokes in time with his thrusts. Bruce’s whines turn to loud moans as Joker increases his pace.  
   “Yesssss,” Bruce hisses and Bruce’s voice, desperate and sex-soaked, completely does Joker in. He convulses and comes. The realization--Joker is coming _inside of him_ \--crashes over Bruce and the thrusting cock inside him and the hand still stroking him send him over the edge.  
   Bruce comes back to awareness when Joker unlocks the cuffs, chafing his forearms to get the circulation back. Bruce rolls over onto his back. He is exhausted, physically and spiritually. He has spent so long fighting this that even losing feels like a relief.  
   Joker sits, Indian-style, next to him, disregarding his own nudity. His expression is indecipherable. He doesn’t touch Bruce, but he makes no move to leave, either. Bruce has always been the first one to leave, afterward. But now they are in his house and there’s nowhere for him to go. He lays there, letting his eyes move over Joker’s thin, scarred torso before finally meeting his gaze.  
   “What do you want?”  
   Bruce has never asked. He’s been too afraid of the answer.  
   “Come away with me.”  
   Bruce reels back, surprised. “Where?” he sputters.  
   Joker shrugs. “Anywhere.”  
   Joker can see this moment stretching out into infinity. He can see what happens if Bruce denies him now—how his desperate longing will twist into hatred, how he will stop at nothing to destroy the Batman. Retaliate. Reciprocate. Bring the hero down.  
   Still, insidious hope clings to his heart. _Don’t let me down, Bruce,_ he thinks. _Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon._  
   “I-“ Bruce stops, takes a deep breath, starts again. “I can’t be Batman anymore.”  
   Patently untrue, Joker knows, but Bruce isn’t ready to face that fact yet. He still sees the world in black and white, guilty and not guilty. He wants to suffer for what he’s done. Deep down, Bruce knows what he is. He’s just not quite willing to accept it yet.  
   “Be who you want,” Joker tells him.  
   Bruce closes his eyes. He feels lightheaded. His heart is thundering in his ears. His mind spins. He stands carefully and reaches down, taking Joker’s hand.  
   “Okay,” he murmurs.  
   Their fingers slide together, palms slotting into place like they’ve done this a million times. And in that moment, Bruce believes that everything will be all right.


End file.
